


Grip

by StevieCass



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hell Fic, Implied Torture, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-13
Updated: 2013-03-13
Packaged: 2017-12-05 05:02:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/719167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StevieCass/pseuds/StevieCass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel thinks of the time he rescued Dean from Hell, and how they've both changed since then.</p><p>Written for deancasweek.tumblr.com</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grip

Castiel didn’t feel.

Or, at least, he didn’t used to feel. Not exactly. He used to  _sense_  many things, and  _know_  things, but he didn’t exactly  _feel;_  not the way he knew Dean and Sam meant it. He knew he always loved his Father and siblings, and he admired mankind, and he cared for all of them, but he had never truly felt his heart warming up with the heat of a loving emotion. He knew when something or someone was dangerous and how to be careful, but he’d never felt his stomach go cold and empty and his legs disappear under him before a fight. He knew he should give freely, and he always had a sense of rightfulness when a good act was performed, but he didn’t exactly feel generous or satisfied.

 

He did remember the time that started to change, though.

He’d been in Hell several times over the millennia, but never for too long. He never had a reason to stay long. When he was sent to rescue the Righteous Man from the Pit, though, he felt lucky he didn’t have a sense of time in the same way the humans did.

Castiel remembered that time every now and then. He remembered getting the order to save Michael’s vessel from Alistair, and how he was chosen, he, among thousands, millions of his siblings. He hadn’t felt proud. Back then, he was unable to comprehend the meaning of any of the seven mortal sins. He didn’t judge humans for committing them, but he couldn’t get how they did it either. The seven deadly sins could get in the way of so many things that needed to be done, so why commit any of them?

What he had done when the order was given was take his sword and get ready for the mission. He was told he shouldn’t go into Hell wearing his true form; not because of the demons, but so that he wouldn’t scare the Righteous Man. Humans could handle the forms of demons, in some level, but they could never stand the true form of an angel; it wasn’t close to anything they’d ever experienced. And he couldn’t use the vessel he was certain he’d acquired; it couldn’t stand the pressure. He’d use it when the time came.

Castiel didn’t have much to hide back then. He was but a name, another soldier among soldiers. He guessed that in some other planet, some other universe, another one of his siblings was saving his own Righteous Man at that point. He just did as he was told, as always. He had no reason to argue.

He had shrunk into a shape just a little bigger than the average demon, and just so bright as to make sure that said demons averted their eyes; they should remember what their place was, and that definitely wasn’t peering at the pure image of a messenger and servant of the Lord. He shaped his form with two arms and two legs and one head, because that was what the Righteous Man would be comfortable with, and kept his wings because he was used to them more than anything else. He took his sword and flexed his wings, and left for Hell as quickly as possible.

He didn’t feel anxious. He knew the job needed to be done fast, and that it wouldn’t be easy. He didn’t feel honored for being the one to do it; if it wasn’t him, there would have been somebody else. There were tons of others better than him. It wasn’t a humble thought, because Castiel wasn’t humble; it was a fact, and it didn’t make him feel bad.

The demons mostly stayed away from him as he walked into Hell. They were scared, Castiel knew. They were terrified that their miserable, sinful lives would end, that they wouldn’t go up to Earth again. Up there, Castiel knew, demons weren’t able to maintain a physical body and turned to smoke. In Hell, though, their true faces appeared to the beholder. Dark, person-shaped, deformed parodies of what was once human, abominations; they filled the place with fear and hate and fury, and Castiel didn’t look at them twice as he made his way between them. Some tried to attack him. Castiel didn’t get angry, nor did he laugh at them.

He simply destroyed them.

Some of the braver ones decided to attack him all at once, to have more chances with him. It took a bit longer, but Castiel didn’t have any actual trouble with them.

 **“Where is the Righteous Man?”** his voice boomed in the Pit.

Nobody answered.

The word spread among the demons soon; an angel was among them. The attacks kept coming. Castiel didn’t get tired, or lose his breath, because he didn’t have one; but he found himself thinking of his resting place in Heaven, and the moment of his return back home. He couldn’t tell how much time had passed. Minutes, maybe, or hours, or eons; he wasn’t sure. Soon, nothing made much sense; time was measured by the demons he slayed. One after another, they kept coming. Castiel focused on the battle, and he kept in mind his final destination. He had no muscles to injure from the effort, but he could see the light that formed his body shimmer and its glow lessen. He knew the demons were too many. He knew he could defeat them, but at what cost?

It didn’t matter, he thought. Not as long as he saved the Righteous Man.

The demons kept coming. Smarter, stronger ones. Castiel had to let go of his disguise once or twice, losing control; demons tended to lose coordination when their eyes are melted inside their heads. Castiel moved faster, sometimes tripping in his own feet. His form wasn’t steady, but he couldn’t let go of it; he was close. His wings were darker now, almost faded, the glow in his eyes smaller, his voice quieter. And the demons kept coming. Castiel didn’t remember how many he had killed.

Their angry yelling deafened him. He hadn’t wanted anything many times in his long existence, but now he truly longed for this to be over. He sensed his powers fading. He wasn’t far from collapsing. Then he heard it. Between the voices of the demons, between their claws and their teeth and their hits, he heard the screams of the tortured souls.

His pace quickened. His Grace wouldn’t stay intact for long. He struggled to get past another horde of demons and finally, he saw it.

The Pit.

Space wasn’t really the same in Heaven and Hell as it was on Earth. It was bendable, eager to obey angels and demons, easy to remake and redesign according to one’s will. The Pit was what the demons had made of all the humans’ worst nightmares. It didn’t really start or end somewhere. It was just there. It smelt of fear and anger and blood, and Castiel’s eyes hurt from the darkness, because it was a darkness so deep it could have been the light of a sun, and Castiel’s Grace trembled under the weight of so many souls turning into something inhuman, suffering their way into demonhood. Some of them were bright still. Castiel looked around, between the chains and the blades and he saw them slowly being deformed, laughed at for screaming after being torn apart.

Castiel knew this was just a trick. Souls aren’t material. Demons are. But Hell is made of that thin thread between what’s real and what’s not, and human souls are so used to the world they knew that they still think the blades and fires can hurt them. And Castiel knew better than most that belief, sometimes, is what defines whether something is real or not.

The angel looked around him desperately. He could see many lights fading, some remembering their human forms, some having forgotten already, some copying their captors’ images subconsciously, becoming what they feared.

One bright light caught Castiel’s attention. It was deep down in the Pit, and Castiel wasn’t sure if it was causing pain or receiving it. Space bent under Castiel’s feet and he walked down a staircase that wasn’t there before. A part of him wondered how many righteous men were truly there; if others were there by mistake, too. What if—

No, that wasn’t his mission. He approached the light. Up close, he saw it was keeping its human form; it remembered. Castiel watched from a safe distance for a while.

The Righteous Man still wore his chains, even though he had another soul in front of him. Castiel noticed he was torturing it. His face wasn’t clear; maybe he didn’t remember what he used to look like. Castiel felt his chest heavy, without knowing why at first. Then he knew; the First Seal had been broken.

That wasn’t right. It wasn’t supposed to happen.

Then the Righteous Man pressed a burning blade into the other soul’s guts. The soul screamed, convinced that the blade was actually there. Castiel heard the screams and sensed the pain and horror of the tortured soul. And guilt. So much guilt. At least the soul was regretting, he told himself.

He looked at the Righteous Man again and suddenly he couldn’t move. His form had a human face now, and it was the saddest one Castiel had ever seen. And then he realized; the guilt wasn’t the tortured soul’s. And sadness was the only emotion the Righteous Man could remember, the only one that he could give his face.

Castiel stepped forward. It was time he put an end to this.

The Righteous Man didn’t notice him. The angel heard him muttering some curses and saw him trip on his chains. Castiel moved fast and grabbed him from the shoulder before he fell.

The man hissed and Castiel felt his palm burning the skin under it. He quickly removed his hand and looked at the man. His eyes were wide in surprise and disbelief.

“I’m sorry”, Castiel apologized quickly.

“What the holy fuck are you?” the man spat out, rubbing his shoulder. He’d stayed in Hell for too long, if an angel’s touch was harming him. Castiel didn’t know what to say for a moment. He tried to lower his glow and bring his voice down to not scare the man. Without knowing why, he noticed a small bronze amulet in the man’s neck, under his blurred face.

“I’m the one sent to save you”, he answered, as quietly as he could.

The man stared at him, then he gave a small, bitter laugh. “Pass”, he said and turned his back. “I know the game, I’ve played it before. Tell that fucker Alastair to stop messing with me. I’m doing exactly what he asked of me, so please be so kind and go suck a dick or something”.

Castiel’s wings fluttered in annoyance at the assumptions and the sound of the demon’s name. “I do not work for Alastair”, he said. “I am an angel, and I’ve come to take you with me. You can trust me”.

The man didn’t look at him. “An angel, huh?” he asked, with a tone in his voice that Castiel didn’t recall having heard ever before. “Then tell me, angel…”

The man turned and looked into Castiel’s eyes. “Where the fuck were you the past forty years?”

So that’s how long it had been.

“I was looking for you”, Castiel said. “It took a long time, but I’m here now. We can go”.

“Go where?” the man asked. “Heaven? I don’t think so, pal”.

“Why don’t you believe me?” Castiel asked. “Do I look like a demon?”

“No, that’s why I don’t trust you”, the man said and he checked the pulse of the body on his table. The soul must have been fresh, because it still remembered every detail of its body. It had passed out. “Demons I can deal with. You look like nothing I’ve ever heard of. Or seen. And I’ve seen a shit ton of creepy things. So get the hell away from here before you get my hopes up, because if you do and then take it away, like the last one of your pals, I swear to God, you’ll end up worse than him. And we were scraping that guy off the walls for weeks, as I like to recall. So fuck off”.

Castiel didn’t answer. He understood it was difficult for the man to trust again, but the proof was in front of his eyes. He just waited for a while, looking at the unconscious body at the table without really looking at it.

“Why aren’t you doing your job, then?” Castiel asked suddenly.

The man looked up at him. “What?”

“You’re obviously assigned with a duty”, Castiel went on. “Why aren’t you doing it?”

“She’s passed out”, the man said. “We don’t torture people who are already down”.

“Why?”

The man’s voice was full of poison. “Because they need to feel it”.

“But she passed out after one hit. Why?” Castiel insisted. The man, annoyed, groaned loudly.

“What do you want?” he asked. “I know how to knock them out with one hit, okay? She’s new here; she remembers the structure of her body. I know where the right nerves are. Are ya happy?”

“No”, Castiel answered honestly, but he sensed he was in a good path. “I’m just wondering why you’re the one torturing them if you hate it so much”.

The man didn’t answer.

“Please stop resisting”, Castiel said politely. “We don’t have much time. I’m sure I was followed here. It won’t be long till the demons come again”.

“Leave”, the man muttered. “Just… leave”.

“Nobody’s blaming you for what you’re doing”, Castiel continued, as if he hadn’t heard the man. “Many a people have been where you are now”.

“I’ve seen them”, the man said. “And I’ve stuck my blades in them. I can’t leave. I’m a monster, and I belong here”.

“No, you don’t”, Castiel insisted, making sure to not touch him as he came closer. “Why are you here?”

“Because I sold my soul”, the man answered.

“To save someone else’s”, Castiel reminded him. “You’re not a bad man. Do you truly believe that you deserve to be here?”

The man looked away. “I didn’t use to”, he murmured. “Now I’m not so sure”.

“Look at me”, Castiel commanded and the man looked up. “You’re a good man. I came for you, and that should be proof enough”.

“Because you’re an angel”. There was that tone again.

“Yes”, Castiel answered. “You can trust me”.

“Dude, I don’t even trust myself”, the man said. “Do you really think I’ll trust a huge light bulb who says he’s an angel? I don’t even know you. You’re a pleasant break, but if Alastair finds out—“

“I am called Castiel”, the angel interrupted him. “I am, indeed, an angel of the Lord, and I have come to your rescue. I spent the last forty years looking for you and now that I found you, I’m not leaving empty-handed. What is your name?”

The man hesitated before he spoke. “You came here for me without knowing my name?”

“Names matter more to you than to us. I know you are the Righteous Man, and that’s enough for me. What is your name?”

There was that hesitation again. “Dean Winchester”.

“Do you want to become a demon, Dean Winchester?”

Castiel saw the sadness in the man’s eyes become more prominent.

“No”, he muttered.

“Do you want to see your brother again?”

The light forming the memories of Dean’s body trembled and glowed brighter.

“Fuck yes”, he answered, his voice trembling.

“Will you trust me to get you out of here?” Castiel asked.

 “Why would you do that?” Dean asked. “What use I am to you?”

“We don’t have time for that”, Castiel said. “Will you trust me?”

Dean hesitated again. “I swear, if this is another trick—“

“It’s not”, Castiel reassured him. “We should take off before—“

A hideous screech cut the air in half. Both Castiel and Dean looked up. A dark, deformed figure came quickly towards them, its pitch black eyes glowing with fury.

“Alastair”, Dean murmured.

“Stand back”, Castiel ordered and drew his blade. Dean looked at him and then at the demon, and then he grabbed the blade. Castiel looked at him, his eyes wide.

“No”, Dean said, “no more. God knows I want to see the motherfucker dead, but I want to do it myself. And I can’t see any more blood today”.

Castiel nodded. Alastair was still coming furiously towards them. They needed to leave at once.

And suddenly, Castiel was really uncomfortable at the idea of touching Dean again. He would hurt him, and that wasn’t what he wanted.

Wanted?

He looked at the slight mark on Dean’s shoulder. He had to hurt him, but no more than he already had.

“This is not going to be pleasant”, he said.

“Gimme your best shot”, Dean said.

Castiel sheathed his sword with one quick move right before the demon reached him, and grabbed Dean’s shoulder tight. He saw Dean grit his teeth and hold back a scream of pain, but he ignored it; he gave a big flap of his wings and soared up and out of the Pit. Demons turned to smoke around them and came at them, screaming, clawing their way towards them. Castiel couldn’t fight them well with Dean in his grip, so he just flew as fast as could. His wings hurt and he felt weaker by the minute, but he didn't stop.

Right before the gates of Hell, a huge group of demons was waiting. Castiel couldn’t fight anymore. He wasn’t strong enough. But he wouldn’t give up.

He let out a cry of agony as Dean closed his eyes, as if he knew. Castiel shone bright for just a second, the wonder of his true form blinding the demons and opening the way.

An explosion signaled their arrival on Dean’s burial place. Then everything went quiet.

It was done.

Castiel could barely believe it. He’d done it. The Righteous Man was out of Hell.

He needed to contact his superiors, but he didn’t have the strength for it. And he was sure that the exhausted soul he was holding wouldn’t make it on its own for long, either.

 ** _“Dean Winchester is saved”_** , he cried out, hoping someone would hear it. Then he turned his look back to Dean’s soul.

Now that he was out of Hell, Dean seemed to have forgotten what his body looked like. He had shrunk into a small trembling light inside Castiel’s palm. Castiel could sense Dean’s fear, the worry, the disbelief. Dean was clinging on to the angel’s hand, trying, maybe, to feel safe.

Castiel couldn’t stay like this. He needed a vessel. He gathered his last strength and flew them both to where his vessel was waiting for him.

Quickly, desperately, Castiel contacted the man. It didn’t take long to make sure he’d get the yes from Jimmy Novak. The man had terms, and Castiel fully intended to keep them. If only it didn’t take that long…

As soon as the yes was spoken, Castiel let the light of his true form emerge from the skies, in that little place between space and time that he was hiding into, and settled inside Jimmy Novak’s body.

The first thing Castiel remembered seeing was different colors. He heard the sounds his new body was making, he felt the weight of it. He took a deep breath for the first time and tucked his wings inside the secret plane that was keeping them safe. He clenched and unclenched his fist, checking whether Dean’s soul was still safe and unseen in there.

He didn’t know what was this warmth that made him sigh the weight off his chest, but he knew it was a good thing Dean was there. Everything was going well. Well, he hadn’t expected to meet any of Jimmy Novak’s family, but it was the last thing he cared about.

He flew back to Dean’s grave as fast as his injured, tired wings could take him. He reached down and grabbed the decaying body.

 _“Is that me?”_  he heard a small, tired voice from his hand.  _“Man, I look ugly. How long was I in there?”_

“In human time? Four months, approximately”, Castiel answered.

“ _Great”,_ Dean said.  _“Now what?”_

“Now you wait”.

Castiel didn’t know why, but he didn’t put Dean’s soul back into his body at once. He didn’t want him to feel the rearranging of his body. He wondered for a moment since when was it that he wanted things, but he decided he didn’t really care. Maybe he was just learning new expressions. Instead, he placed the small light over his vessel’s heart. Soon, Dean’s soul started pulsating in synch with Jimmy Novak’s heartbeat, and Castiel felt his new body go out of his control; he wasn’t planning on raising the corners of his mouth, but he couldn’t stop it.

Slowly, carefully, Castiel picked up the bits and pieces of Dean’s body and put them back together. His flesh was injured from the Hellhounds, but Castiel wouldn’t let that stop him. He mended the organs, and the broken bones, and the decaying muscles. He healed the rips in the skin and fixed it so it was stretching healthily over hardened muscles and not just bones and dried blood. He found the little place in Dean’s consciousness that remembered the faces of his past; he ignored the most prominent one, one of a younger, taller man with longer hair and kind, hazel eyes, and picked the one that looked more like the corpse in front of him. He rearranged the characteristics to form those full lips and freckled cheeks again, and Castiel felt his Grace fill with wonder for the color of the eyes he was rebuilding. He gave the blood flow again, and made sure the heart was beating properly by hearing his own and making sure they were beating the same way; he watched as the blood filled the body and gave color to the skin and warmth to the flesh. He gave the brain a few nudges, hoping the memories were still intact. He gave the order for everything to start working again; every hair starting to grow, every organ synching with the others, every kind of fluid going back to work.

It had been hours, and Castiel could comprehend the passing of time now. His body wasn’t aching, exactly, but it was feeling the changes in the temperature and in the tingly stillness of his legs. Dean’s soul was still under Castiel’s coat.

As soon as he was finished, he took a deep breath and took Dean’s soul out. The little light trembled as if it was cold and clenched onto Castiel’s hand tighter.

“ _What’s going to happen now?”_  Dean asked.

“Are you familiar with the tale of Lazarus, Dean Winchester?” asked Castiel.

_“The dude who came back from the dead?”_

“I count that as a yes”.

“ _So what, you’re going to tell me to rise and I will?”_

“You will rise whenever you’re ready, Dean”, said Castiel. “For now, rest. It’s going to be tough for you. I will contact you as soon as I can”.

Castiel kneeled next to Dean’s body and placed the soul on top of it, ready to push it back in.

“ _Wait”,_  Dean said. Castiel stopped.

“What is it, Dean?”

 _“Will I remember this?”_  Dean asked.

“I don’t know”, Castiel answered honestly. “We’ll have to wait and see. Now go to sleep”.

The angel pushed the little light back into its body. He might have imagined it, but he thought he heard a tiny  _“thanks for everything, man”,_ right before he placed the last piece in the big puzzle that was Dean Winchester.

Castiel secured the coffin under the dirt. It could take days for Dean to be ready and he wouldn’t leave him outside where anything could find him. He knew he was strong enough to find his way out.

He convinced himself he wasn’t used to his vessel’s eyes when he recalled seeing a red handprint on Dean’s shoulder as he closed the lid. Memories of the soul couldn’t be as strong as to leave a mark on a physical body.

He didn’t know if he wanted Dean to remember any of this. He didn’t even know if he wanted anything. And if he did, what did it mean?

It was as he’d told Dean. He’d have to wait and see.

***

Castiel shifts in his chair, next to Dean’s bed, trying to get comfortable while not making any noise and waking the hunter up. Dean’s had a tiring day and the last thing he needs is another all-nighter; Castiel knows how hard it is for Dean to fall asleep these days.

Dean stirs in his sleep. Castiel used to get worried about that when he first started looking over Dean at night. After a while he started ignoring it; if it was something that bad, Dean would wake up.

After Purgatory, though, ignoring Dean’s nightmares isn’t enough for Castiel. He doesn’t want to see Dean that way. He isn’t worried anymore, but it just annoys him.

Castiel gets up. He takes off his trench coat, his tie and his shoes and crawls under the covers, next to Dean. He feels the warmth of his body and the cheap, scratchy blanket Dean has stolen from a motel room. He doesn’t touch him. He doesn’t need to. Sometimes, all he needs is to be close to him, checking on him, making sure he isn’t scared. A part of him still expects Dean to burn at his touch, although even the handprint is gone from his shoulder.

Castiel watches Dean breathe, feels the warmth on his face; he hears Dean’s heartbeat, still synched to his own, even after so many deaths and resurrections. He reaches for Dean’s soul with whatever’s left of his Grace and tries to soothe him.

He doesn’t expect Dean to wake up at that. He never does. And yet, Dean half-opens his eyes.

“Dude, what are you doing?” he mumbles.

“Watching over you”, Castiel whispers honestly.

“Can’t sleep?” asks Dean.

Castiel wants to remind him that he doesn’t have the need to sleep yet, but he chooses not to. “No, I was just remembering”, he says in the end.

“Good things or bad things?” mumbles Dean.

“Both”, answers Castiel. “Hasn’t it always been that way?”

“I guess”, Dean agrees and closes his eyes again.

They stay in silence for a while.

“Cas?” Dean mutters.

“Yes, Dean?”

“Don’t leave tonight, okay?”

Castiel smiles. “I won’t”.

“In fact, you know, screw that”, Dean mumbles. “Never leave”.

Castiel’s heartbeat loses the synch with Dean’s, but he doesn’t mind. “I won’t”.

“Awesome”.

Castiel can’t help himself as he leans towards Dean and kisses his forehead gently. “Go to sleep, Dean”.

Dean clenches at the covers harder and nods. He reaches under them and takes hold of Castiel’s hand.

“Thanks for everything, man”, he whispers.

Castiel doesn’t answer. He has found out over the years that sometimes, when his feelings are so strong, he doesn’t need to.

 


End file.
